


Runs in the family

by kopperblaze



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Line of Durin, M/M, additional relationships to be added - Freeform, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5690140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kopperblaze/pseuds/kopperblaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just think about the songs they’ll write about us. I could call myself ‘Dragonslayer’, which is so much more awe inspiring than ‘Oakenshield’” </p><p>OR: What would've happened if Frerin lived? If Thorin was a little less bitter? If Fili was under less pressure? And if there was a second Durin in Erebor after Smaug's fall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runs in the family

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiii~  
> I've been away for ages but I hope there's still some folks around :) The past year has been difficult for me for a lot of reasons. Now that things are looking up my head is filled with a thousand ideas, which is brilliant after months of silence. So here I am :) In the spirit of the new year I'm trying to let go off some perfectionism and instead of fretting and editing every paragraph over and over until all the joy is gone I'll attempt to just...get things out there as quickly as possible. 
> 
> This is just a short beginning but I hope you enjoy it. I'd love to hear your thoughts on it :D 
> 
> Oh and also for anyone wondering, [Rollo from Vikings](http://cdn.history.com/sites/2/2015/03/vikings_s3e5_gallery_1.jpg) is my personal inspiration for Frerin.

The knock on the door silences the rowdy dwarves in a second flat, something Bilbo hadn’t thought possible. It makes an anxious knot settle in his stomach as he wonders who manages to garner such a reaction from the rowdy bunch.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat Bilbo becomes aware that he’s been staring at the door much like a rabbit at a snake while the rest of the dwarves and Gandalf, that thrice-damned meddling wizard, are looking expectantly at him. 

Clearing his throat Bilbo squares his shoulders and steps forward, opening the door in a swift movement before he loses his nerves, only to reveal yet _another_ dwarf. There is something regal about him in the way he holds himself and for a second Bilbo feels cowered by his presence. Clearing his throat again he steps to the side to allow the guest in, but before he can utter a greeting the dwarf shoulders past him. 

“Gandalf. I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way. Twice.” 

Goosebumps raise on Bilbo’s arms as the deep voice of the dwarf resonates through his core. 

“It would’ve been easy to find if you’d just handed me the map.” 

Bilbo swears he can see the dwarf’s eyelid twitch, taking away some of his regal presence. 

Another dwarf steps into Bag End, looking almost identical to the first one but for his slightly fairer hair. He’s got the same strong bone-structure and is also clad in shades of blue, though the lining of his coat is made of black fur with but a stripe of brown in between. 

“May I introduce, the leader of our company. Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf steps in before the two dwarves set each other aflame with their glares. The first dwarf, Thorin, turns and nods at Gandalf before taking off his coat, which is immediately taken from him and hung up neatly by … Fili, was it? 

“And his brother, Frerin.” 

The second dwarf has the decency to at least turn and look at Bilbo, which is more than can be said for Thorin, and inclines his head in a bow. “At your service.” 

“Bilbo Baggins, at your-“

“So this is the hobbit,” Thorin interrupts, circling Bilbo like an overgrown (and very unfriendly) cat, before scoffing. “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.” 

Bilbo splutters. The rest of the dwarves chuckle and laugh and well, if that isn’t the height of rudeness. Pillaging his pantry, destroying the plumbing, and now they have the audacity to mock him? Bilbo can feel his cheeks puffing out but before he can give Thorin Oakenshield a piece of his mind the dwarf is led away by Balin, the others following. 

“Don’t mind my brother, Master Baggins,” Frerin rumbles, patting Bilbo’s back. “He’s been in a foul mood because it took us so long to get here and our food supplies ran out. Then again, he’s been in a foul mood since he was born, so better get used to it.” 

As Frerin shrugs out of his coat Fili and Kili step back out of the kitchen. Dropping his coat on Belladonna’s glorybox without much care Frerin’s face breaks into a grin.  
“Grown too old since last we saw each other to greet your uncle properly?” 

He has barely finished his sentence before Fili and Kili are upon him, the three turning into a tangle of limbs as they embrace. Frerin put his hands on the back of their heads, touching his forehead to first Fili’s, then Kili’s. 

“It is good to see you again,” he murmurs and Bilbo shifts, feeling like he’s privy to an intimate moment and wondering how young Fili and Kili actually are. The dwarves are blocking the way to the kitchen though, so he has no other choice but to stay.

“Your journey went well? No problems on the road?” 

“None,” Fili and Kili chorus, clearly proud of themselves. 

“Good.” Frerin pulls back a little. Without losing his smile he hits them both over the back of their heads, eliciting affronted cries. 

“Your mother sends her regards. That’s for stealing the pies from Gimris’ windowsill on the way out. Also she made me bring along some things you had forgotten to pack, spare socks and whatnot, and would like me to remind you to write to her at least once a fortnight.” 

Even in the flickering candlelight Bilbo can see the colour rising in Fili’s and Kili’s cheeks. Fili licks his lips, glancing at Bilbo before looking back at Frerin. “Uh…thank you, uncle. May we talk about this later?” 

“Always trying to be so proper. Careful or you’ll turn into Thorin,” Frerin rolls his eyes before winking at Bilbo. 

“Oi, better get a move on if ya want something between yer teeth tonight,” Dwalin grunts, pushing Fili and Kili aside to grab Frerin’s arm, the two of them bumping their shoulders together. 

“Right, of course. You must be starving. There’s still some food left,” Bilbo rejoins the conversation, finally finding an opening to return his role as a host. This role, at least, he knows how to fill. 

“Come, come. Now from what I’ve gathered you dwarves prefer your ale, but if you’d care for something hot to warm up, you let me know.” 

The others have saved a chair for Frerin by Thorin’s right, and as they all settle down once more Bilbo busies himself bringing out the last food his pantry has to offer (thanking his dear father for planning some secret storage cupboards when Bag End was built). 

After that there is a lot of talk about quests and dragons and suddenly Bilbo is in the middle of it, the entire… gaggle of dwarves apparently expecting of him to go and face a dragon, just like that, presenting him with a contract that talks about _funeral arrangements_. There’s an uncomfortable rushing in Bilbo’s ears and then everything goes dark. 

~

Bilbo feels like he’s sneaking around in his own home, keeping his steps light and quiet as he moves from pantry to kitchen, wondering what he can offer the dwarves for breakfast. From all corners of his smial come soft - and not so soft - snores, occasionally some illegible words mumbled in sleep mixed in. It’s a stark contrast to the usual silence blanketing his home and Bilbo finds himself somewhat glad for the feeling of life the dwarves have brought to his lonely house. Their song still vibrates in the air around him and Bilbo finds himself humming it under his breath as he puts out the ingredients for breakfast on the counter. Oatmeal will have to do, warming and filling and hopefully sending them off with a full belly. 

“Come on now, brother.” 

Bilbo stills, at first not sure if it’s his mind playing tricks on him. 

“Don’t despair.” 

Without thinking about it Bilbo abandons the bag of oats on the counter and tiptoes over to the kitchen door, pushing it open a little further. It’s enough to be able to see into the living room across the hall. Frerin and Thorin are sitting at the table, shadows dancing over their faces as the fire flickers in the hearth. Thorin’s head is in his hands, his shoulders hunched. He seems smaller somehow, deflated. Tired. More like a person and less like a king. Bilbo’s sure that he’s not supposed to see Thorin like this, that nobody except for his closest family is allowed to see him like this.

Frerin grabs the back of Thorin’s neck, squeezing it in a gesture of comfort. “You knew that they weren’t gonna come.” 

“I had hope,” Thorin mumbles into his hands and even his voice sounds smaller. Still deep and making the insides of Bilbo’s chest swing, but not filling every corner of the room anymore. 

“And where has hope ever got us?” Frerin huffs, butting his head against Thorin’s. “There’s no hope for the line of Durin, foolish brother.” His smile is strained and so’s the cheerful tone, one adopted to mask the hurt beneath. Bilbo is achingly familiar with it. 

“What then is there for us?” Thorin still doesn’t raise his head from his hands. Bilbo leans forward, hungry not to miss a word, and curses himself when the wood squeaks beneath his feet. Thankfully the brothers don’t seem to notice. 

“Foolishness. We got that going for us.” 

That, at last, draws a chuckle from Thorin. 

“Foolishness and stubbornness and courage. Our line has always been brilliant at that. All the necessary traits one needs to take on a dragon, if you ask me. We may retake our homeland and reclaim our birth right. But even if we don’t, at least we’ll have made our ancestors proud. They wouldn’t want us to hide away as tinkers and blacksmiths in that Mahal-forsaken wasteland, scraping together barely enough to feed the children and clothe our women. We’ve never been good at hope, Thor, but we’ve always been good at foolishness in the name of honour and pride.” 

Thorin’s shoulders heave as he draws in a shuddering breath. For a moment there is silence, even the snores hushed as Frerin’s words hang in the air, until he himself breaks the spell by chuckling and slapping Thorin’s back. 

“Just think about the songs they’ll write about us. I could call myself ‘Dragonslayer’, which is so much more awe inspiring than ‘Oakenshield’” 

Thorin half-heartedly kicks at Frerin under the table, finally raising his head. 

“The lasses would go mad over me,” Frerin continues, his lips stretching into a grin. “Well, they already do anyway. It’s you we have to worry about. Didn’t listen to me when I told you that Oakenshield lacked…allure.” 

Frerin ducks with what can only be described as a giggle when Thorin tries to hit him over the back of his head. 

“Don’t worry, brother. On our quest for fame and glory I’m sure we’ll manage to find you a pretty lass along the way. Or maybe a lad.” At that Frerin’s eyes flick over and suddenly he’s looking straight at Bilbo, like he’s know him to be there all along. For a heartbeat Bilbo feels frozen to the spot, but then his pulse speeds up and he has to draw on all his self-restraint to close the door slowly and quietly instead of slamming it, before he flees back to the stove. 

His hands shake and he spills oats all over the floor as he pretends to get everything ready for the morning, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.


End file.
